Imaginary Friend
Imaginary Friend, Lauren Mantecon, oil on panel 46x50, 2019
Scoll down for upcoming workshops
I sometimes fantasize my way into history. I am an eavesdropper to artists co-mingling in dim lit and heavy wallpapered salons.
My latest imagined intimate conversation over the deeper yearnings of our creative souls is with Mark Rothko, sipping wine, or in his case scotch and water.
The late Mark Rothko was an abstract expressionist who painted the abyss in large fields and blocks of color in the 1940’s and 50’s: contemplative, full of sublime silence leaning towards depth of emptiness, masterful spiritual expression.
He claimed once that art was not meant for public consumption. He said:
"When a crowd of people looks at a painting, I think of blasphemy. I believe a painting can only communicate directly to a rare individual who happens to be in tune with it and the artist.”
I love him for that statement. I see Mark as a true romantic with a desire to rendezvous with simpatico souls.
And the irony of Rothkos’ statement is that in his later period, his paintings were so immense in size that they really could only be viewed in museums.For this we are grateful. This ironic twist gives access to those of us that have the antenna to feel the immense power and presence of his work.
Like Rothko, I paint to co-mingle with divine grace. Yet I sometimes forget as I struggle to belong/not belong to an art world that leans so heavily on bankability (we need to make a living) and the ever consuming production machine. To be seen rather than to really take the time to cultivate what we see creates half baked ideas thrown out into the world too soon.
I too forget that long periods alone with my paintings and thoughts are the way to rendezvous with the divine, and when I do, my paintings flourish.
Over the years my most realized works always seem to find their way, like that finely tuned antenna, to the person they belong to.
The most profound of these experiences was in 2002. I was painting in my Portland, Oregon studio for an upcoming solo show at a local gallery, Mark Woolley. Five 40x36 panels were leaning against a large white wall.
One particular painting, crimson red, mixed with sap green for depth, was morphing and changing. I let my thoughts drift.
Free flow thoughts- Cardinals - the Catholic kind - allegations coming out of New England about abuse. Thoughts, mapping, weaving, taking on a visual language looking like cells of a body, how we get sick, cancer.
When the painting was done it became the show card and was reprinted as a 2x2 inch square the day of the opening in The Oregonian. Nancy, a psychologist and poet, was drinking her morning cup of tea when she came across the image in the paper.
She was the first at the gallery that day. She bought it immediately.
Later, I received a letter in the mail. It was a poem. Nancy described to me her battle with cancer. At the time of the writing it was in remission.
She said to me that the moment she saw the image in the newspaper she knew it was painted just for her. A gift, a healing.
With that I have never been more proud to push and wrestle and build my way through a painting. And sometimes I still I forget- the rendezvous with creative grace.
Yet, I keep plodding -showing up however clumsy- waiting for the conduit of spirit to shine it’s way back in.
Thanks for reading,
